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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28286766">man about town</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekerSky143/pseuds/SeekerSky143'>SeekerSky143</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>One Piece</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas, Comfort, Home, M/M, finding warmth in another person</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:33:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,840</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28286766</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekerSky143/pseuds/SeekerSky143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>it’s dark, it’s cold, and it’s only in the flickering lights fluttering to life that you realise there might be a celebration. watching the shadows of families through their windows makes you feel… well, something. you see, you haven’t been home in a while. maybe you’ve never even had a home. and so you raise your fist to the door — and it swings open before you even have to knock.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Roronoa Zoro/Vinsmoke Sanji</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>man about town</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>the title takes from the literal meaning of the individual words, not the actual meaning of the phrase. it's written in second person, but give it a shot.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>man about town</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>it’s dark; it’s cold. behind you, the boat bobs about its anchor, ebbing and flowing with the tide of water, the moon heavy by its side. your stomach burns, even as the wind chills your spine and you dig your nails deeper into your skin. your hair is matted and greasy; you had chopped it, but it still falls below your ears, clutches to your skull. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>your lips are dry; your stomach still burns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you move away from the harbour, towards the village that has perched itself by the shore. the wind curls around your lonesome frame, jostles your empty pockets to sway. you can’t tell when it is, how long the summer has gone, how soon it might come again — and it’s only in the flickering lights draped outside doorways and along streets that you realise there might be a celebration. shadows come to life from beyond closed windows, and it’s only when you see these forms, shifting and moving and laughing, that you feel… something. you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you aren’t entirely sure, if that sudden clutch in your chest is from longing or a sword wound; if the prick of tears at the corners of your eyes draws from memories you can no longer touch, or from a drinking match you have only undertaken to fill the empty belly your pockets can no longer pay for. if that urge to run and envelop someone in your arms is just loneliness, or something else entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>well, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>possibly be feeling something. you see, you haven’t been home in a while. maybe you’ve never even had a home. in any case, even if you did, you certainly cannot remember it by now. you’ve never felt much loss from it — but now, standing by a row of twinkling lights, being forced to witness a series of shadow-performances from outside of windows, your… your throat feels parched. your stomach still aches — and you’re used to aches, you’re used to that hollow gap yawning wide enough that it swallows the rest of your organs whole — but this time, your stomach shrinks to be noticed. your breaths rise fast, fall heavy. your finger twitches by your side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>the first door is polished, gleams even beneath dim lights. when your hand hovers close, the streak of dark beneath your nails seems to crack the wood apart, burn itself into the glimmer. you move away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>it is only at the third door that you pause. you raise your fist — but the door swings open even before you have to knock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>a person stares up at you. his eyes widen, his mouth drops; you want to leave, you nearly spin right on your heel to leave — but then he speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“do you… want to come in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>your throat is parched. so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> very parched. you can’t help it; you look the person in the eyes, oily mop of hair be damned, and nod. you nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>he nudges the door wider as you enter. already, this place is too bright, too clean. everything made of wood and plaster, floor shiny, walls white. you’d take off your boots, with the dirt and blood and grime caked over their soles, but you know your bare feet aren’t any better. here, just over the threshold, you can almost see the fumes of your stench wafting into the house, weaving through the walls and settling over the table of food, the large sofa, a counter of framed photographs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>smiling faces catch your attention, and your chest doesn’t clench this time but pangs. you... you should leave. you really should leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“sit,” the stranger says instead. without the haze of alcohol or the cloud of smoke shrouding your system, you have no excuse for your feet moving further into the house, your nose dragging your body to the dinner table. the stranger picks up a plate and places it at the seat closest to you. it’s odd, that he has a table full of food but with no cutlery placed for it. “eat.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>you don’t think you should, but you sit down and pick up the fork anyway. there is a plate of ham right in front of you; a bowl of mashed potatoes to the right. a large chicken behind, an even larger turkey right on the other side. and there are no empty plates set out aside from your own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>you dig in anyway, ghosts be damned. you’d soon be entitled to such offerings anyway, if you let your stomach have its way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>it’s only when your mouth is full and you busy yourself chewing that you realise that you might have gotten it wrong. even in death, you might not have such a feast. you’d need to have left someone alive, at least, to prepare it for you. and you know that when you leave, you leave no survivors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>the ham tastes like dust, but you swallow it anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>when you are done, and your stomach has calmed, you notice the stranger standing by the kitchen counter. he watches you watch him. on worse days, you might grab the knife and throw it. on better days, you might step up to him and kiss him. but today you are surrounded by phantoms, and straddling that odd precipice between existence and not, you can’t do much other than return his stare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“enough?” the man finally breaks the silence. he nods at the table. “you can finish it all, if you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you shake your head. your mouth is still dry. isn’t there anything to drink?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“there’s water,” the stranger adds. “you want some?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you do, you do — but you’re not sure if it’ll help. still, you take the glass he offers and down the water in one gulp. it quenches your thirst, but only just. you think you could use more water. much, much more water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“what are you doing here?” the person asks, lowering his brows as he fits a cigarette around his lips. the lighter clinks as he opens it, and then he feeds the flame to the filter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>the urge to answer rises to your lips, and you heed it. your mouth opens, but the words don’t come easy. they creak out, unused as they are, in a rumble, “travelling.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“oh?” the person answers. you don’t know how you’ve only just realised it, but his hair is blond. the orange glow from the cigarette illuminates his features; casts shadows beneath the sharp cut of his cheekbones, lights his eyes up gold. “how long have you been travelling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“… a while,” you admit. you stare, once again, at the spread of food. “where…?” you indicate the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>the person clicks his lighter again, once, and then twice. “travelling,” comes his response. his gaze jumps back to yours. “they’ll be back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you look at the framed photographs on the counter, and you can’t even count the number of faces that live there. they span more than your one hand, and that’s more than you can imagine. “when?” you try. somehow you want to know them. now that you’ve sat where they’ve sat and eaten what was meant to be theirs, you think you could meet them, possibly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“whenever,” the blond gives a wave. his brows pull towards one another. “sometimes they come, sometimes they don’t. this year i thought they might, but…” he gestures to the table. “shit happens. time gets forgotten. it doesn’t matter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>it does, you can tell in the way his fingers curl tighter around his lighter, in the press of his teeth onto his cigarette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>but you don’t say anything. you can’t imagine what it’s like to wait for someone, to stand guard at a home. perhaps it’s meant to be then, that he opens his house to someone who’s been homeless for so long. that even if things don’t fit quite right, they might fit at least for just this moment. like being at a tavern, but better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>like a bed and breakfast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“i’m zoro,” you say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>the stranger raises his brows. shifts his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. “sanji,” he answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>today, you could have this. today, you could let your home be sanji.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>the clothes you are in would have been tight half a year ago, but now it fits snugly around your frame. when you wipe the back of your palm against the condensation over the mirror, a stranger stares back at you, wearing your face. his green hair is clean, for once, uneven strands draped over ears. a scar stitches one of his eyes shut, and now that the grease and oil has been cleansed, the lines on his face are starker than ever. he’s only in his mid-twenties, yet in this picture you could imagine someone in his thirties, forties. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>you should really take off those three earrings one day, though. you think they might be rusted to your earlobes now, brown creeping up and latching to your skin. when you look down, your fingers are still grimy. you run them under water, try to clean the dirt from under your nails. the water drains nearly black, just like how you had stood in a pool of your own mud as you showered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>when you emerge, the heat from the radiator wraps around your body. there is a mug of hot chocolate by the counter, and you pick it up, callused fingers curling around the heat. you hover your face over the steam, let the aroma warm your chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>the blond is sitting on the sofa, legs crossed. his reflection mirrors in the empty black of the screen. now, under better lighting, you realise his eyes are blue. not like the ocean, but like a glass bottle set off to sea. he looks up when you arrive, and you stand under the doorway to the living room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“sit,” he says. you listen, like you can’t help it; hesitantly settle yourself on the other end of the sofa. when your body sinks in, you nearly topple over, and your hand reaches out for something to hold onto before your back rests against a couch cushion. the stranger — sanji — cocks an eyebrow again. “never sat on a sofa before?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you are familiar with hard surfaces: bar stools, rotten wood on flimsy boats, jail cells. you’ve never had soft. even the sweater over your torso is the softest you’ve ever felt — every time your body moves against the fabric, you’re surprised by its texture against your skin. not coarse and rough and itchy. you can fall asleep in this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“no,” you admit, and his eyes widen marginally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“i see,” he says, picking up another cigarette but not lighting it. “you said you’ve been travelling for a while.” it’s more of a statement than a question, but you nod anyway. you think he’d ask questions — people at taverns don’t probe much, but you’re not in a tavern, you’re in someone else’s house. and you think he’d want answers; want to paint a picture of the stray he has brought home, figure out if he’s worth keeping, even if just for a night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>it won’t be a pretty picture. it’s more endless than a simple painting, anyway, a stretch of time only blocked by snippets of hurried sleep and alcohol. you don’t have much to say about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“must be tough,” he comments instead, “in this cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you blink. when he looks back up at you, the moonlight drifts through the windows. it catches his hair, threads of gold glowing under the stars. his eyes are pretty, the prettiest you have ever seen, even if they are abandoned bottles set adrift. “it is,” you find yourself admitting, and then you swallow that odd surge of emotions in your drink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>instead of shoving them away, though, your chest swells up larger, fuller. you want to… you don’t know what you want to do. you don’t need to kiss him, exactly, or strip him from his clothes to try to wrangle a morsel of comfort in your entangled limbs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>you want to reach out, run your fingers through his hair. you want to stare into his eyes, those kind, helpless eyes, and touch your forehead to his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>you want to bring him close to your arms and hug him. feel his heart against yours; his heat mingling with your skin. strays finding strays. even if he’s at home, and you’re homeless. even if he has people he’s waiting for, and you do not. something in his expression, in the slouch of his shoulders and the quiet dinner table laden with food and the empty laughter caught in the snap of a photograph, draws you close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>he doesn’t glance at you. “this year’s christmas is cold,” he comments. “or maybe the house needs better heating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“it is warm,” you can’t help but answer. it’s the warmest you’ve ever been. you’ve never realised how frozen your limbs are until it’s begun to thaw, and now that you’re melting you aren’t sure how you can hold yourself upright — how you’ve ever held yourself upright. “thank you,” you raise your mug up. “it’s…” not simply sweet and filling and cosy; not simply the nicest thing you’ve tasted in a long time. it’s more than simply that, more than words, it’s… “perfect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>sanji looks up at you, and then the corner of his lips tilts, slightly. he brings his lighter to his cigarette, the filter catching the flames. when the smoke drifts into your nose, you’re nearly surprised you can smell it. you’re used to the tang of blood and the sting of rust and metal; you haven’t smelt anything else in ages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“tell me about them,” you find yourself saying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>the blond barks a laugh. “shouldn’t the traveller be the one with the most stories?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>but stories need to have heart. and your years of wandering have everything but that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“they’re a riot,” he continues, not needing an answer, and a plume of smoke escapes his lips. he leans back and allows his head to fall on the cushion, his gaze idly settling on a spot in his ceiling. “but they’re family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>his eyes are brighter now, that curve of glass bobbing towards the horizon, falling light scattering across its surface. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“when they’re here, they’d make such a fuss. bring the snow into the house with them, let it melt all over the floor. throw their little trinkets and souvenirs all over the dinner table as they eat.” he shakes his head. “scream at one another; steal food off each other’s plates.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“they sound like children,” you comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ha. they pretty much are,” the blond chuckles. “but i wouldn’t have it any other way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>silence falls over the two of you for a long moment, the blond smoking away as you sip on your hot chocolate. the cup is running empty, and you don’t want to finish it. maybe you think that if you do, you’ll no longer be entitled to this sofa, to these stories, to sanji’s smiles… to his laughter. the dregs of chocolate settle at the bottom of the mug, and still you tip the rim to your lips, even if you taste nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>when the moment has dragged on long enough, you open your mouth. “when i was younger,” you say. he lifts his head and rests his elbow on the armrest, tilting his body to face you. you can feel his stare, as cutting as blade across skin; your throat is still dry. you lick your lips. “we’d compete to make the biggest snowball. we’d roll it down the hill until it grew bigger than us, and then when we let it go we’d watch as it barrelled down, all the way, until it crashed into a tree or a house or one time — a person.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“wouldn’t want to be that person,” sanji answers. his gaze dips, to the mug in your hand. “need a refill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you freeze. your hand clenches around the mug. “yeah,” you answer. “yeah, thanks.” as he nears, you find your heart speeding up. his fingers brush yours as he takes the mug over — you barely loosen your grip in time to release the mug to him — and then he makes his way back to the kitchen. his shadow pulls long over the floor, and his silhouette looks thinner as he fiddles with milk and chocolate and cocoa at the kitchen counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“continue,” he says, back facing you. you still feel the touch of his fingertips across your knuckles, your skin buzzing, your nerves running.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you continue, “yeah. we got punished really bad that day,” you say. the memories return in fragments: holding a bucket of water over your head in the thick of winter, feeling the weight settle as the water hardens into ice; limbs freezing, nose turning red in the cold, frost settling over your hair. then, you had thought that’d be the coldest you’d ever experience. now, you realise you couldn’t have been warmer. “but it was worth it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>sanji returns with the mug, and your nerves drum even before he approaches. he hands the mug over, fingers brushing yours once again, and this time you don’t rush to pull away. you keep your hand there, skin touching, and his gaze meets yours as your lips stretch into a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“thank you,” you say, and you hope he can feel the sincerity, pulsing from your heart to his. he draws away first, lowering his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>is he… blushing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>when he sits, it’s a couple inches closer to you. he flusters with his lighter, cigarette dangling in his mouth, and you place your mug down on the coffee table. at the cling of your mug against the glass, his head rises again. you lean forward as you take the lighter from him, and then you set your thumb over the wheel. “here you go,” you say, pushing down on the wheel. the flames burst to life, and you lift your hand to his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>he stares at you, the orange glow of the light warming the air between your faces. and then he moves forward, resting the tip of his cigarette against the flames. once the cigarette begins smoking, you release the wheel and drop the lighter back into his open palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“thanks,” he mutters. this time, there’s no mistaking it — his ears are red, the apples of his cheeks pink. you can’t help the smile that pulls harder at your lips. even though he’s the one smoking, you feel a little breathless, like your lungs have forgotten to take in air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>after a few seconds, he glances back up at you. drops his gaze to his lap, and then lifts his eyes to meet yours again. “why —” he begins. “why are you here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you don’t understand the question exactly. does he mean here, in this town — here, during christmas — here, under his roof — or here, now, wearing his clothes and sitting by his side?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“my feet lead me to where they will,” you answer, “and my body stays where it wants to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>he inhales deeply. “i don’t understand what that means.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“i don’t, either,” you admit. “but do we need to?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>when he exhales, you take the cigarette from his fingers. you’re close, closer than you’ve ever been, if not to a human body then to a human soul; and you register your face in the reflection of his wide eyes, the lines on your forehead, the square of your jaw. the scar over your left eye. all of your edges smoothed over by the simple drape of his light pink sweater over your torso; by the drop of chocolate hanging to the corners of your lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>sanji shifts, not away but also not closer. he blinks, and the mirror disappears. instead you find yourself staring into the blue of sanji’s eyes — no longer a forgotten bottle now, but… but something larger. larger than the ocean, larger than the sky. something else entirely. something that you can’t describe. something that’s just sanji.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you drop your gaze to his lips. you don’t need to kiss him, exactly, but… now you want to. his lips are cracked; your throat is still dry. the ashes from his cigarette falls, burns as it grazes past your skin, but you don’t falter. you can’t move away even if you want to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>you lean closer. “may i?” you ask. sanji blinks again. his lips part, almost unconsciously. his gaze dips, lingers on your mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>your throat is parched. so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> parched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>he nods, and then you close in. you feel your breath intermingling with his, your shared air wrapping around one another — and then your lips meet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>he tastes like smoke, smoke and nothing else but smoke. you see that formless gas holding him up, as though he’s a balloon only pushed into motion by the burn of tobacco in his lungs, and you push your air into his mouth, as though your oxygen might hold him together better than the nicotine can, might hold him upright even if only for a second longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>he’s warmer than you can imagine, hot all over, and you feel your ice melting into water. you can barely hold yourself steady, the weight dispersing over every inch of your body instead of being constrained in solid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>when the two of you part, you see yourself back in his eyes. you can’t make sense of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>sanji holds onto your wrist. his lips are red now, his cheeks redder still. his eyes are blue, prettier than ever. somehow you’re still holding onto his cigarette, and he takes it from your fingers and smashes it into a nearby ashtray. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“may i?” he asks, this time. you don’t know what for, but you nod anyway. when it comes to him, you don’t think you can do anything but nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>he smiles, and then he pulls on your wrist. you fall towards him, and he catches you in his arms, wraps you in an embrace. holds you there like he’s the bucket to your melted water, like his warmth might carry you even if he can’t put you back together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>you shut your eyes, breathe in his scent from his hair. it smells of smoke, but also something more. wood, maybe, or cinnamon. the fragrance of sun on grass; the beach at dawn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>he rubs circles into your back, and you nestle your head deeper into the crook of his neck. you feel his pulse thrumming; you feel your heart beating alongside his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>you might have dozed off, even fallen asleep there. when you open your eyes and lift your head, his face is the first thing you see. he brushes his lips over your temple, and then rests his forehead against yours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“merry christmas, zoro,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>you smile. just for tonight, you think you can have this. you think you can stay; can build your home around this place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>can let yourself settle, as long as it’s with him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“merry christmas, sanji.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this was meant to be angsty, but somehow angst never stays as angst in my work. hope y'all have enjoyed this little piece.</p><p>merry xmas everyone!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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